


Make Me Out Of Clay

by cathenian



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Crack, Drabble, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PWP, Unresolved Sexual Tension, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:04:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathenian/pseuds/cathenian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles written for the Arthur/Eames, last drabble writer standing competition. Seven weeks out of nine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Me Out Of Clay

  
_Week One_   


**Genre/Cliché:** UST  
 **Prompt:** Broken Pencil

 ****

We Can't All Be The Queen

"You have no imagination!" Eames threw his hands up in the air dramatically as he watched Arthur. The point man was sitting in a chair, rocked back on two of its legs. He spun a pencil around his fingers, eyes narrowed in annoyance and a faint blush tinting the tips of his ears. Eames stared, transfixed, at the color for a moment, before he allowed himself to turn around and go back to the white board. He turned to look back at the room, waiting to hear the opinions.

"I have imagination; I just don't think that we need you to forge the Queen," Arthur threw back with an exasperated sigh. Ariadne and their extractor, Lucia, didn't get a chance to voice their opinions before Eames started pouting at Arthur.

"Fine, you win, dream-killer," Eames surrendered, and he spun around to start cleaning off the white board. He cleared it with broad strokes, a look of dejection on his face. He had been looking forward to trying on the Queen's skin.

"How about you use Emily?" Arthur relented after a moment, knowing that she was Eames' favourite forge. Eames turned around to look at Arthur again, his face lighting up with joy.

"I didn't know you had a thing for leggy brunettes, Arthur." Eames gave his eyebrows a suggestive waggle; Arthur threw his pencil at him in retaliation. Eames ducked out of the way, letting it hit the white board where it broke in half.

"You want to play rough, darling?" Eames taunted successfully avoiding the projectile.

"See, I told you," Ariadne gestured to the two men interacting, her eyes trained on Lucia. The extractor nodded, finally understanding.

  
_Fin_   


  
_Week Two_   


**Genre/Cliché:** Flangst  
 **Prompt:** "You're such a fucking idiot."

 ****

I Can't Do Anything But...

"How long?" Arthur asked, his throat raw, lips parched and tongue thick.

"Three days; they had you for three days." Eames answered.

"Three days," Arthur restated. His gaze turned to his hands, one covered by a cast and the other by Eames' hand.

His breath shuddered from his lungs as he removed his hand from Eames' grasp and clenched them in his lap as the memories flowed through him, revolting him to the point where he felt his stomach churn in disgust. Eames reached out a hand to trace his slender, bruised shoulder.

Arthur jerked to the side, twisting away from the touch.

"I'm sorry Arthur," Eames apologized, pulling his hand back.

"Don't apologize," Arthur's sharp voice rose pleadingly. He was angry that Eames was seeing him like this, that he knew everything and still stayed. "They don't change anything."

"I know, but I can't stop myself from saying them darling." Eames whispered. He stood up, sliding onto the bed beside Arthur. He wrapped his arms gently around Arthur, careful of his multiple injuries. "I'm sorry that I have to teach your body that not every touch is meant to harm and that every brush of skin is hiding a double meaning. I'm sorry that you have to spend so much time in this hospital recovering."

"You are such a fucking idiot if you think you can." Arthur responded finally, his body stiff in Eames' arms. Eames pressed his lips to Arthur's dark hair and just held him. After a moment, the other man melted his grasp, shaking. Eames traced his hand up and down Arthur's back.

Eames didn't move, just stayed with his arms wrapped around Arthur, even after Arthur fell into unconsciousness. Even after visiting hours ended and no one came to ask him to leave, he stayed.

  
_Fin_   


  
_Week Three_   


**Genre/Cliché:** H/C  
 **Prompt:** Bandaids

 ****

Amused By His Misfortunes

"Don't be such a child Eames," Arthur huffed out in mock annoyance. His eye brows were drawn down in concentration and lips quirked in amusement.

"I'm not being a child, I just don't like that this is questioning my masculinity." Eames pouted. He perched on the edge of the toilet in the hotel bathroom. Arthur continued to go about cleaning the jagged cut just below his hair line.

Eames tried to ignore Arthur's dimples as he smiled at Eames' displeasure over the current situation, but that was where is gaze was drawn as Arthur shook his head in disbelief. Arthur couldn't believe that after the complete failure of a job that they had just pulled, the smashed bottle to his face and running through Roger's Park, Chicago in the dark of night; that ithis/i was what Eames was complaining about.

"Just hold still and suck it up. Can you do that, or do I need to pin you down so that I can finish cleaning up that scratch?" Arthur asked, tweezers raised to pluck a shard of glass from the cut. Eames waggled his eye brows, effectively ruining Arthur's aim. It earned him a smack on the shoulder.

"You can pin me down any time darling, no need to make up a reason to do so." Eames drawled suggestively, only to give a yelp as Arthur pulled out the piece of glass. Arthur dropped the tweezers on the counter and picked up the small box. Eames groaned as Arthur pulled out the band aids, the reason he was so unhappy.

"Please Arthur, can't you find _something_ else?" Arthur ignored Eames' complaints and slapped the band aid in place, admiring the purple color, decorated by tiny pink butterflies. "I'm not a six year old girl!"

"But Eames, some days you are."

  
_Fin_   


  
_Week Four_   


**Genre/Cliché:** AU  
 **Prompt:** Park Bench

 ****

In The City With No Name

Eames watched the city from where he was perched on a park bench; one of the few decent views in this uninspiring town. From here he could watch people come and go in hopes of finding something to create.

He should have been home working on his next painting, but he just couldn't bring himself to get up until he had found something.

"Eames?" The low voice cut through his mental musing, pulling his gaze up to a lithe man in a slightly rumpled pair of slacks. Eames couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, because even though this city lacked imagination, it ihad/i created his beautiful muse in a sea of ordinary.

"Arthur," Eames grinned and slid over to allow the slimmer man to sit. Arthur took the offered seat, but fell silent. After years of working in tandem, Eames creating art and Arthur hosting them in his gallery, they knew each other's ways.

He leaned back and let Eames watch him, knowing full well that soon enough Eames would be heading home to pull something from a block of Carrara marble or to create something on a blank canvas. It had been this way for years.

  
_Fin_   


  
_Week Five_   


**Genre/Cliché:** First Time  
 **Prompt:** Pizza

 ****

Something Else Entirely

Eames has never doubted that being with Arthur, in the limited sense of the word, would be anything ibut/i normal. He knew that it would be something else, stuck somewhere between a few hurried meetings of frantic release and a few planned hotel meetings. He had come to expect those short meetings. This... this was not one of those meetings.

Arthur had called him over to his apartment with nothing more than a location. He hadn't questioned the phone call and had gone immediately. It had been a surprise to realize that they had been in the same city, but nothing more. He had expected a quick bump and grind.

He was sitting in Arthur's apartment, his kitchen more specifically, nursing a glass of 2002 Twomey Merlot in between his sweaty palms. He was watching Arthur with a hawkish intensity, trying to figure out just what they were doing exactly. This wasn't part of the game; this wasn't part of the rules.

Arthur looked up, expression serene and lips quirked in the smallest of smiles. He was standing over the counter with the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up and hands covered in flour. He spooned a ladleful of tomato sauce onto a disk of dough and it surprises Eames, because Arthur was making them pizza; he was making them dinner.

This was something that they'd never done before; it was a step that neither of them has been willing to take up until this point. It doesn't surprise Eames that Arthur was the one to settle them into some kind of domestic setting, because trusting in something out of his hands was one of his many talents. While Eames believed in playing the odds, living life through trickery and self preservation; Arthur was surprisingly the opposite.

He could see the knowing look on Arthur's face, the one that told him Arthur could see his coiled muscles, could see the need to flee and protect himself on Eames' face. He knew that Eames was already calculating the chances of getting hurt. He didn't say anything though, just lowered his gaze back to his task at hand.

Eames took a drink for his glass of wine, savouring the taste of dark fruits and chocolate. He put the glass down and leaned back further in his chair. He would stay, if only for the trust Arthur had in him.

  
_Fin_   


  
_Week Six_   


**Genre/Cliché:** Crack  
 **Prompt:** Saturday Morning Cartoons

 ****

Expectations

Eames expected the worst when he slid a key card that he had filched from the cleaning lady, into the slot in Arthur's hotel door. His hand was on the butt of his gun as he quietly turned the handle and pushed it open. He was ready to see the hotel room in tatters, because nothing short of Arthur getting kidnapped or killed, would stop the punctual man from making it to the warehouse on time.

"Who?" The muffled question greeted Eames as he pushed into the room. He blinked, because that had sounded like Arthur, but voices could be deceiving. He walked into the living room, not knowing what to expect.

A massive pile of blankets, a mess and some cartoon on the telly was far from anything he could have imagined.

"Arthur?" Eames asked and watched as the mass of quilts moved. A head broke free and dark brown eyes squinted up at him.

" 'Mes?" Arthur asked, dark eyes blinking slowly. He groaned lowly, before curling back into the blankets. He was huddled under them on the floor, surrounded by piles of used tissues. He gave a sniffle, before speaking again. " 'M sick."

"I can see that," Eames picked his way across the room and hovered over Arthur for a moment. The man gave a grunt of annoyance, hand reaching out for a Kleenex box. His arm was goose pimpled and pale, visibly shivering, before it was retracted into the haven of blankets. Eames felt a slight wave of sympathy, before turning around and heading for the kitchen.

"You continue watching your Saturday morning cartoons and I'll make you some soup." Eames ordered, digging through Arthur's kitchen cupboards. It wasn't often that he had a chance to witness a less than perfect Arthur.

  
_Fin_   


  
_Week Seven_   


**Genre/Cliché:** PWP  
 **Prompt:** Unexpected

 ****

On The Edge

Arthur arched back into Eames with a hiss, his hands curling in the blankets in an attempt to find some kind of leverage. Eames' weight pushed down on his back, pressing him into the mattress. Eames braced a hand on his hip, holding them up so that his ass was in the air and easier for Eames to move against.

"Shit, Eames!" Arthur growled as Eames rolled his hips slowly, keeping at his unexpectedly careful ministrations. Arthur's breath came in panted, sharp, gasps, punctuating the night. The slow build up had him gripping the blankets and had his eyes squeezing shut. He moaned, but all it earned him was a low chuckle and the brush of lips against the back of his neck.

"Keep up with me Arthur," Eames purred as he pulled back, before sliding home again. Arthur responded by rolling his hips backwards, only to be stopped by Eames' hand. His hand traced over Arthur's hip and took him in hand; rough finger's gliding smoothly over his cock. After months of sleeping together, Eames' knew how to work Arthur, but normally it was rougher; normally it was a quick tumble in the sheets.

Arthur moaned, legs spreading wider to allow Eames' more space to move, silently begging Eames to speed up. He was shivering with need, because one could only take so long before release was needed. He whimpered, grip tightening, his knuckles whitening. He lasted only a handful of minutes, before he finally resorted to begging. "Eames please, please, please."

"There we are Arthur," Eames purred into his ear. He pulled out sharply, hand tightening and then slammed home. It was exactly what Arthur needed to go tumbling over the edge.

He came back to himself, Eames' hand brushing through his hair and his other hand smoothing over his side. Arthur blinked up at him, catching the soft smile on his face. He couldn't stop the answering smile from fluttering onto his face

"Hey," Eames grinned and curled around him, hands continuously gliding over Arthur's sensitised skin. Arthur burrowed into his warmth, his muscles loose and languid.

"That was frustrating, but so very worth it." He breathed into Eames neck.

"Mm, I know." Eames hummed into the crown of Arthur's head, his chuckle vibrating through Arthur soothingly. There really was no other place that he would rather be, clichéd as that may be.

 __

Fin


End file.
